2306–Autumn_Evensong.html

Autumn Evensong

Peach tinged clouds wash across the sky
in sunset’s ripples.
A blue tit, magnificently dressed,
stands proudly on his perch
awaiting his audience;
trilling his voice in preparation.
Next door the builders have left for the day
leaving their scaffolding;
new trees for starlings to fight over.

Filberts and juice, squeezed from this year’s apples,
with fresh baked bread and my mother’s strawberry jam
mellow me, prepare me to cast off the office
and don the weekend.

A week of problems sinks with the sun
to trouble me no more.
Friday nights
are made
for poetry.